v i c a r i o u s
by MAL DE OJO
Summary: Disconnect and self-destruct one bullet at a time. What's your rush now? Everyone will have his day to die. Lycanthrope AU x Dany/Jon
1. Dany: Prologue

**CREDULOUS AT BEST, YOUR DESIRE TO BELIEVE IN ANGELS IN THE HEARTS OF MEN**

_Dany_

Prologue

* * *

The wet concrete slab was a godsend as it grazed the scalded side of her face. The impact was abrupt, so sudden that she lay there minutes afterward, spread-eagled and with a rising sense of certain defeat that threatened to choke her. The pain subsided quickly, however, and was quickly replaced with indignation that shook the her tiny body in sporadic intervals. "Cunt," she said to no one in particular, her mouth pressed partially against the ground–she could already taste the metallic tang of blood welling from her tongue. "Disgusting, addle-brained cunt." Regaining composure the girl of some 19 years lifted her torso as to bring her knee forward, her hands on either side of her body providing support, but pain cracked her body like a whip and she collapsed once more. _What a piece of work I am,_ she thought bitterly. _I suppose I deserve this and much, much more._ Ever so gingerly she gathered the sagging contortions of her body to a standstill and grasped the ironwork railings that led up the steps to a tiny but quaint townhouse. She hobbled to the door and fumbled for her lanyard until she had the right key, punched it in, and turned the knob.

_God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb._

Quickly, she slammed the door shut, hooked in two chain locks, paused, and unhooked them instead. _Home_. She collapsed into the tanned armchair as she came to the living room, twisted the knob on the floor lamp at her right, and surveyed her swollen ankle before reaching for her cellphone and prompted the time. It was well into the morning: 4:02. No matter. She opened her messages and sent Shae a text:

* * *

**Client**: S

**Body**: in deep shit

ankle might be dislocated

the door is open

**Sent**: 4:02 AM

* * *

Shae was her boss's whore, but was appointed as her fellow aide and devil's advocate in any circumstance of business. She placed the phone on her lap and closed her eyes, delving into the throbbing of her left leg so sleep could not claim her. It was bearable. The floorboards moaned quietly as she shuffled her feet, plum wood still greased with that lovely lemon furnish. The interior of the house had been well-maintained by its previous tenants, but now lacked the luster of a conventionally "arranged" house as there were several pieces of furniture still to be installed and no décor. Even the walls' custard beige paint seemed to glare a foul yellow. Her phone signaled a reply with a single _ping_:

* * *

**NEW MESSAGE**

**Client**: S

**Body**: Be there in 10 so hang on girlie ;)

**Received**: 4:15 AM

* * *

It didn't help much that Shae was outwardly bisexual in every sense of the term. For the girl, it was mildly off-putting. She wasn't exactly a model of aesthetic beauty herself. Her once pretty face marked by a lengthy stretch of scar tissue which stretched from her left cheek to the hairline at her temple just above. The rest of her retained pre-pubescent features, built lithe with narrow hips, small pierced breasts and sharp, cat-like features that retained the rapacious, predatory effect even in sleep. Her skin was porcelain (save for a winged serpent tattooed on her pelvis), her hair cropped to a messy platinum blonde bob that rested at the jawline with wispy bangs kissing her forehead. The clothes she had on were "on-duty" clothes. A full-length turtleneck bodysuit of sorts. Tight-fitting and black, rather flattering. At her waist was a nylon belt with two holsters for her M9A1 and combat knife. On her gloved hands was the blood of men.

"Dany, darlin'!" _KNOCK! KNOCK!_ Almost immediately the long-legged figure of Shae materialized from the door. "Ooh, little birdie, you look like _shite_." Shae was indeed exotic. A strange concoction of Persian and Spanish bronze that lent to its own delicious alchemy. Burnished copper and slanted, coal-dark eyes with shoulder-length coal-dark hair. Her breasts were perfect plums and her ass was small but nicely-filled out and held high. She wore yoga tights that complemented her sporty frame and a fitted magenta hoodie with leopard fur trim (far from her usual glitz and sky-high stilettos). In her freshly manicured hands was a pricey tote bag with–

"_What in fuck's sake is that?_" Dany raised a scrutinizing brow at the shiny object flashing in its translucent box.

"Oh, this? Just a toy. The battery fried before I could even–don't look at me like that you condescending bitch! I wasn't ever planning to use it on ya!" Dany feigned hurt and then laughed which prompted Shae to squeeze her nipple as she bent down to observe her ankle. Originally from Essex, her accent came closer to a wind chime–thin, lingering, and high.

"So what's the prognosis, doctor?" Dany asked dryly, her girlish voice almost sing-song.

Shae grabbed a bottle of analgesic anointment from her bag and applied a generous amount to her leg, massaging gently so it could absorb into the skin. "Just a minor sprain," Shae murmured and looked up with a sudden inquisitive grin. "So, how didja stick'em?" Shae was half a girl herself, at most she appeared to be 22.

Dany drew in a sharp breath and closed her eyes. "Does it _really_ fucking matter, Shae? Really?"

"Now, don't be a sour sport."

"I stuck him beneath the chin. He asphyxiated in his own blood. Jesus H. Christ!" She reopened them to find Shae staring at her intently, eyes like black orbs saw everything and nothing all at once. Dany felt like she would fall in for an eternity. "You're crazy."

"_I'm _ _crazy?_" Shae pitched the words higher and brought out a roll of compress dressing and began to bandage it tightly across her ankle. "You're the killer, sweetheart. I'm just a gal with a libido appetite and a sweet rack," Shae shimmied her shoulders, making a last few adjustments to the bandage. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, however, and assume you're not as dead inside as you make yourself out to be."

"What kind of a friend would I be if I turned on you at this very second and shot you point-blank range?"

Shae's smile vanished as she tipped her head thoughtfully, lips pursed and solemn. Dany could see a bruise creeping from beneath the collar of her sweater.

"A true friend."

* * *

**PLAYLIST**

_Change (In the House of Flies) _| **Deftones**

_Battle-Axe _| **Deftones**

_Rev 22-20 _| **Puscifer**

* * *

_There are some TGwtDT undertones. Not sure whether I like the storyline yet, however. Should I throw in a lycanthrope or two? Maybe a vampiristic theme to a certain extant? Just bear with me! More to come!_

_Also FYI: Daenerys is simply known as Dany, as it would be a bizarre name in a modernized world. _


	2. Jon: Feel Good Inc

**THE UNIVERSE IS HOSTILE, SO IMPERSONAL. DEVOUR TO SURVIVE. SO IT IS, SO IT'S ALWAYS BEEN.**

_Jon_

I: Feel Good Inc.

* * *

He loomed over her like a waking pillar of reminiscent Pompeii.

_The bitch had puckish teeth drawn in mid-snarl and a shrew's disposition, though with a figure even the great succubi would envy. Of course it came to no surprise that her cunt was neither inaccessible or immune to a handsome devil's capering so Jon enjoyed the feel of her cosmetically engorged teats pressed up against the length of his body as he fucked her in one of six en-suite guest bedrooms. Baroness of Love._

"_Ó, sim! Ai, ai, ai!_" She coiled her dancer's legs around his waist and pivoted her hips to grant him deeper entry, hands which were thrown above her head clawed at the sheets and empty air in frantic rapture. Slicking back a few wayward strands of hair, Jon inclined his upper body forward and forced her legs to bend back mercilessly, her knees nearly touching her ears. "_Ó porra, m-mmm!_"

"Do you like how daddy fucks you?" Baring half-lidded eyes, his voice came in the heavy baritone of a man who enjoyed cigarettes, Bourbon and whiskey.

"Ai, ai sim, bebê!"

_He is volatile, chaotic; everything that makes one pause and wonder, why? And anything done on impulse, the cheap adrenaline thrills of life and death. Dusty romances, decay, things that have survived the onward march of time; wilted flowers and mayflies and anything ephemeral, fleeting, innocent only in their temporary status. Brutality and tenderness, nature's dog attack on a lengthy leash, deceived hopes and the let-downs of others. Cacophony and dying cries, last words with meaning, last words without meaning. Familial strife and broken knives. That catalyst when things fall apart; continents or governments or someone's composure. Futile efforts, the struggles of his victims, the inevitability of their deaths and watching them come to terms with that fact. All the things commonly fear, all things considered anathema to sensible people: the repulsive, the tumultuous, the monsters of society. The silence after the death rattle. Every villain at work, anyone doing what they do best - providing that's torture, murder, chaos, his favorite words, a lexicon of hate. He is the cause. He is the glory. He is the beauty of the breakdown, the slow decay of coherence and morals, the inevitable backslide into Original Sin._

* * *

The gale thickened as it wrapped its violent winds throughout the idyllic district of Jardim Botânico, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

Nonetheless, Jon sat on the panoramic deck of his nearly 40,000+ sq ft. luxury home and smoked his Nat Sherman Black & Gold cigarettes. Slate grey eyes likes plumes of smoke focused on the apex of Christ the Redeemer's silhouette painted far-off into the horizon as he a took a single drag.

"Já ouvi falar muito de você." Came the foreign words.

Jon cast a glance over his shoulder. The woman stood several feet away, dressed in a silk kimono and nothing more, shaking violently as a cold draft played the ends of her robe. "Do you always exchange pleasantries with knives out? Go back inside, love." His USP .45 shone in her hand, but her posture was uncertain, un-calculated to say the least. Jon chided softly, flicking the ember from his cigarette in her direction.

"Vá-se foder."

"My love–"

"Call me by any other name, and I shall dash the blood from your throat. I know what you are. You bring poison, and victims mistake your kiss for the cure."

_How lovingly romanticized._ Jon stood to face her and she raised the handgun to counter. He could very simply alert a guard or better yet, his entire militia. His snipers were out there, indeed, in that horrid carioca jungle. A single motion of his hand would put an end the bitch's nonsensical shrill but she posed no danger to Jon. He ashed out the cigarette and started to walk towards her.

"Não tenho medo de _cachorro_," she hissed, windblown. "You're all just dogs, brought to be put down."

Jon felt the heat of her swept along with each passing draft. He allowed a smile to cut neatly through his features in a satirical spasm, his steps quietly screaming vigor as he approached. "Stay back!" The woman's banshee cry fell to deaf ears as his male stare momentarily passed over her half-nude body, wrought in the intoxicating perfume of fear. "And when I thought you could never become more beautiful, _still_ you gain countenance." _You're so much prettier when you're afraid._

"Vai à merda!"

She spat into his face, raising the gun, but that was the last thing she saw before his teeth came crashing down against her skull.

_And just as the Cheshire smile has become something of a cliché (like a photo negative on one's eyelids), the image of his toothy grin remains long after the cat, itself, has gone; the same is true of an encounter with Jon, from the labyrinthine complexities of his remarks, to the feeling of having been made a fool of that lingers after his departure. Yet he spurns the cliché: his comments probe and provoke and offer no insight into one's own life, no illuminated path from the horrors of the conscious. He thrives on the discontent of others and ensures its continuation with a few pointed statements. Entering into conversation with him, this poetic Victorian bastard, is a dangerous task: attempting to delve into his psyche would doubtlessly, and invariably, prove fatal. He wishes to be known, renowned, and notorious until he burns against this systematic ashtray, closing as a sanguine song and ending as nothing more but a permanent stain by the dances of dominance and submission._

* * *

**PLAYLIST**

_The Widow _| **The Mars Volta****  
**

_The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret _| **QOTSA**

* * *

_I love intense cliffhangers, don't you? :^D Now you guys have gotten a taste of Jon and Dany's characters as they are played in this fic, in the next coming update you'll receive even more information into the plotline in general and where I will be taking them. It's all downhill from here! *phew* _


	3. Dany: Carnivore Amore

**DIE, DIE, DIE, MY DARLING.**

_Dany_

II: Carnivore Amore

* * *

Tyrion was a man with half a man's stature. A grotesque little thing, handiwork in semblance to a Grimms' tale. A pair of mismatched eyes coupled with an equally disproportionate array of extremities. But for what he lacked in beauty, he made up in attire and everything else, as it was made apparent: golden hair swept in artful, tight cascades, clean shaven, and dressed in master tailor Enzo D'Orzi's single-handedly custom made suits. Shat out and furnished with gold, was a phrase he was fond of using. As a lowly waif shat into Thames River slums, London, he was introduced to the grand world of illicit substances and its marketing, therein.

Tyrion was a smart man, patient but deadly. His ferocity was notorious. He would no sooner send his own friends to the purgatory should they fail to adequately fulfill what was asked of them. Though, as Tyrion saw it, he had no friends. Only allies and rivals. Those who wished to passively stand at the sidelines of his chaotic path were often met with brute force, and the dwarf was a man armed to the teeth. But life was no chessboard, rather, it was a Machine with an infinite processing system of possibilities. Many a-times you had to tonguefuck the Queen, to slip her King's grail a smidgen of cyanide. It was compromise. Defeat is inevitable; it was all a matter of running your luck as far as it could take you, before you would be shot down.

That is what Dany knew of her Little King. He had saved her from herself, long before she could even walk. An infant, still pink and screaming and on fire. She became a daughter, an ally, and his contract killer.

"Dany, sweetling, how are you?" Tyrion's left hand was pressed on Shae's calf, though in his right hand clutched a simple tapering of Sobieski vodka, a penchant all too familiar to Dany. He had arranged a party at a luxury estate in the Dutch metropole of Amsterdam. It was a way for Tyrion to gather his favorite politicians, CEOs, and fellow entrepreneurs into one space and provide them with one-too-many drinks. They would eventually become frothing dogs at his heels, all too eager to best each other in Tyrion's favor.

"I'm fine, thank you, sir. Hello Shae." Dany offered them a smile.

"Hi, baby, are you enjoying the event?" The bronzed Xanthippe wore a dress with royal blue fabric that straddled her figure meticulously. Dany noted the heavy, extravagant chain at her neck.

"Yes, it's beautiful here."

"Why haven't you picked up a refreshment, love? It would be best to provide these muppets a show." Tyrion said pleasantly.

Dany reflexively picked a glass from the tray of a passing steward. _Canine loyalty time couldn't erase._

"There is talk of a man here who has been asking in regards of my ocean freighter. He is a man from Brazil who would like to make amends."

Dany swirled the concoction of gin and grapefruit in its glass, her eyes focused intently on Tyrion, "What sort of amends?"

"I suppose he's in need of my services. Do you know of the trade in Brazil?"

"Not very much, other than it's run by dogs and bloody massacre."

Tyrion laughed. "Ah, yes. You do know, dear, that this art has been practiced solely by freaks and monsters. _Per se,_" Tyrion took a sip. "The Lobo is the only dog, the true monster. Those henchman of his are the hardiest soldiers you will ever meet. Born into _favelas_, they grew up with bleak aspirations otherwise unfulfilled, but he uprooted them from that mess and filled their pockets with coin until it came flying out of their ears."

"A bribe?" As far as drug lords and kingpins went, their power and artillery came from the simple gift of coin. Though the cycle of supply and demand was vicious.

"No, dear. A blood pact. Those playthings fear for their lives."

Dany blinked. "What, why? They could very easily turn on him for whatever reason; shoot him dead, need be."

"The Lobo has bad blood. Did you ever sit back and question the origin of his name?"

"It just never came to mind, really. Their names based on their savagery, are they not?"

Tyrion's distorted face glowed in amusement, but it could have very well been the drink. "The Lobo is a _lycanthrope_."

Shae appeared to be unmoved, but Dany furrowed her brows, a scowl forming on her full lips. "A what?"

* * *

_Lycanthropes aren't very different from men. Maybe a little meaner, a bit more animal. Though they desire riches, as we do. Carnal pleasure, sweetling, freaks and monsters are what we are._

Dany's head pounded. The window at her bedside was thrown open. The night devoid of a moon. Perhaps hidden behind the clouds.

_I'm going to pack up that freighter and you will be going with it. There will be over 5,000 lbs. of morphine base. A small welcoming present. There is a port in Puerto Rico where you will dock, unload and afterwards, you will go by plane. The crates contain wine from a seedy factory in Northern Ireland._

Will I be searched?

_This is a first time carry–international laws mandate that port officials do a minor frisk of the products but nothing as to dampen your mood. As far as you know, this shipment is an entirely new process. You're either too stupid or naïve to realize what's happening. That fellow from the party will become your consortium. You're to make sure it arrives to Lobo or you're as good as dead._

Theon was his name. Tyrion had introduced him shortly afterwards. A man of little to say, though his eyes boasted of witty cadence. He was tall, greyhound lean overcast in dark features. He spoke English, with an accent Dany couldn't place. It was just like Tyrion to send her to the strenuous task of sailing on a cargo ship with a strange man who appeared to be Lobo's personal consultant. _Damned if I do, damned if I don't,_ she pulled the covers over her head and feigned for a sleep that wouldn't come.

* * *

**PLAYLIST**

_The Outsider _| **A Perfect Circle**

_Send the Pain Below _| **Chevelle**

* * *

_I'm having way too much fun with this! Until the next update, au revoir._


End file.
